


A Study in Blue

by brocanteur



Category: Elementary
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and Moriarty in Moriarty’s studio</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Blue

It wasn’t about love, could never be about love, or the romantic desires that pulsed through their veins when they looked at one another or came close to smiling at one another, or when they kissed one another, breath mingling, hot on skin that already burned when touched.

“Oh, but you hate me,” Moriarty was saying, a smile curving her already funny lip shape, her hips and her stare pinning Joan to the wall. “And I can’t get you out of my head. I thought that painting you would help, but now your face is in my dreams. How cruel you are to haunt me so.”

And Joan, who had no words, none that she could speak, but who could recognize, admit to herself, that it was reckless, it was stupid, it was putting need ahead of common sense. That the throb between her thighs could be satisfied in other ways, in ways that wouldn’t drive her half crazy when she thought about them later, in bed, close to sleep, close to nightmare.

So she choked on soft laughter, because who was the ghost in this scenario? If anything, they were haunting each other.

“Your problem is you talk too much,” she whispered. “You’re giving me too much time to think. Too much time to—” _Back out?_ Her words caught in her throat as Moriarty unzipped her skirt and reached inside, stroking down from the base of her spine to the back of her thighs, lifting enough for Joan’s feet come loose in her heels. She almost kicked them off, but she liked the position, liked the angle, the turnaround. Moriarty, an inch or so shorter in bare feet, looking up, her expression one of adoration, supplication.

 _This isn’t real_ , Joan thought, _she isn’t_ real; but her pulse raced anyway, and her lips parted at the flattering sound, something between a whimper and a sigh, that Moriarty made the moment her mouth grazed Joan’s breast. Even through her top, the warm heat of it, the pressure and the promise of teeth, hardened Joan’s nipples, made them ache, and immediately whatever leverage she’d thought she had a moment earlier completely vanished.

Flushed with resentment, she threaded her fingers through Moriarty’s hair, down to her scalp, fisting, pulling her head back to keep her lips from wandering. Her eyes widened, no doubt searching Joan’s face for the state of play. She was taking in hard, measured breaths Joan could feel against her sternum, each rise flattening Moriarty’s chest to hers. Then Moriarty shifted her hips to slide her leg between Joan’s, a little cry stopping at her throat when the gesture only made Joan tighten the grip on her hair. Pleased with herself, glad she hadn’t allowed that small victory, Joan kissed around her mouth, from corner to corner, sucking her lower lip, releasing it through her teeth with a hard scrape that made Moriarty’s eyes go lambent. The sight of it made Joan’s stomach drop, and so she did it again before licking her way in with a groan that surprised her.

All of it was a surprise, even as it was happening, especially the wet heat between her thighs as she brought them together, the tight pulsing that was quickly becoming unbearable.

Later, she would think about how things had gone so wrong, about how the beginning of it should have warned her off, should have told her that the path they would take was filled with danger, and that the danger was Moriarty, who had fended off every one of Joan’s barbed comments and from then on systematically dismantled all of her defenses. Sherlock had warned her, but Joan would never have believed it until it was too late.

And it was too late.

She had already allowed the dangerous fantasy to creep in, imagined the soft-warmth of sleeping beside her, of knowing not Moriarty, but _Jamie_. They seemed, even now, even as Moriarty clutched and pulled and stroked and nuzzled closer, that they were two different people. Joan, who was half-blind, whose vision had narrowed to the size of a pinhole, couldn’t think of it any other way. Jamie was Sherlock’s, but Moriarty belonged to no one, and it was Moriarty who now filled the room. It was Moriarty’s air that Joan breathed.

It was cold in the loft, and Joan’s skin went to gooseflesh as they rid themselves of their clothes—Joan’s skirt puddling at her feet as Moriarty’s paint-spattered shirt and pants were hastily thrown to the corner. They took stock of one another, and Moriarty smiled as her gaze travelled the length of Joan’s body, her eyes dark, cheeks stained red.

“Well,” Moriarty said, voice throaty as she took one, two steps closer. Her small breasts flattened against Joan’s and she sighed as Moriarty whispered hotly in her ear, “Here we are, Joan Watson.” Reached between her legs, her hand a mirror to her palette, dabbed ultramarine and yellow ochre and rust. “I’d wondered if you might want this as much as I do.” Rubbed with enough pressure that Joan couldn’t help the canting of her hips. She stared so hard, Moriarty’s colors blurred. “These are soaked through, aren’t they? Oh, Joan, you’ve ruined me.” Turned her head to press soft, urgent kisses along Joan’s throat.

By then, Joan had closed her eyes, but she opened them again when she felt Moriarty lean away, her hand still on Joan, still stroking; but she was watching now, too, her smile gone, her lip caught between her teeth as her eyes locked with Joan’s.

“Please,” Joan said, and the word surprised her. How it sounded surprised her. Needy, begging, though what she wanted she wasn’t exactly sure. _Please don’t say that. Please don’t give me time to think this through. Please keep going. Please hurry. Please._ “Please… _Jamie_.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, but she closed the space between them, kissed Joan with a shocking intensity, her breath coming sharp and audible through her nostrils as her tongue swept into Joan’s mouth. Joan’s fingers were still wrapped in her hair, but she loosened her grip, let her hands drift to Jamie’s face as one kiss turned into another into another. When Jamie reached into her underwear, Joan made a whiny shivering sound that Jamie swallowed up. And then, she was bending to Joan’s breast, taking the puckered tip between her lips, her cheeks going sharp as she sucked it into her mouth the moment she tucked her fingers into Joan’s underwear, and then inside of her.

Joan closed her eyes. For a moment, she closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the world was hazy. Over Jamie’s shoulders, Joan saw everything she had seen before—paint and supplies; easel; canvas; finished and unfinished reproductions. All there, the same, but in that moment of a different hue, colored by the sensation of Jamie, all around her: the aroma of her shampoo, the brush of her hair, her fevered skin, and the rough stroke of her tongue. Her wrist pressing repeatedly against the apex of Joan’s sex, hard and uncomfortable, but overwhelmed the sensation of Jamie’s palm glancing wetly across her clit. Sounds were different, too. Where a few minutes earlier Joan had heard the din of traffic coming from outside, from off the bridge, all that filled her ears now were the sounds coming out of Jamie, dying on her skin, muffled by the underwater cast of Joan’s blood pumping, echoing the tattoo of her heart.

“Next time,” Jamie was murmuring, her voice far-off, dreamy, and that she was thinking of a next time was too much for Joan to think about, not in that moment, not as the loft spun around them. “Next time, we’ll have a bed. I want you for hours, for days. Till we’re too exhausted to move. Would you like that, Joan? Christ, you’re shaking.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Joan said, because she wasn’t thinking rationally, because she _was_ shaking, and the knot in her belly was quickly unraveling.

“I want to see you,” Jamie continued, a different fire in her voice as her fingers curled, sought and found just the right place, confirmed by the hitch in Joan’s breath, in the moans she tried and failed to keep tucked in her mouth. “Show me what you look like, Joan. _I want to see you.”_

Their eyes met and Joan’s back and hips bowed for a moment before she trembled like a plucked string, her legs weak in the aftermath of her release. She struggled to catch her breath as Jamie held her, kissing her cheeks and her jaw and her neck, stroking her hair. Meanwhile, Joan closed her eyes and held on, staving off reality for a few more moments.

 _No,_ she thought, but she pushed it away, pushed away every impulse to flee as she sank her fingernails into Jamie’s waist, heard her soft, throaty laughter. Dug deeper, harder, enjoying Jamie’s hiss as she said,

“You haven’t won anything.”

“Haven't I?” Jamie whispered, pressing close, closer. “Show me. Show me that I haven’t won.”

Joan did.


End file.
